Trespasser
by DreamBrother
Summary: Maybe it was just him who didn’t deserve to be happy. Outsider POV


**Disclaimer:**Numb3rs isn't mine. Rub it in, why don't ya?

**A/N: **I think I may have fallen in love with the word last night. And I'm still suffering from _Endgame_ (the play) overload – cookies if you spot the references. 

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**Trespasser**

"_... forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us"_

He really shouldn't be here; this wasn't his home, his neighbourhood. Heck, it wasn't even his state let alone his city. In spite of all that, he couldn't find it in himself to leave. What seemed like a lifetime ago he'd learnt that life really didn't bother with what should and what shouldn't be; it simply was - just like he was standing right here, right now, waiting. 

He hadn't been in Los Angeles long, and this was his first time in the City of Angels. He had come for one thing, and one thing only after which he would leave, job completed. His home, if he could still call it that seeing as how he held no more attachments to that place, was Albuquerque, born and bred. There was nothing left for him there anymore. That city in New Mexico represented only who he had once been, and what he had lost. 

Headlights from a passing car made him shrink back into the shade of the tree. He knew that it was impossible to expect no-one to see him lurking around especially in an area where neighbours probably knew each other's names and cared just a little bit about the welfare of those living next door. Besides, there were bored old ladies everywhere – he could just imagine the curtain pulling back to allow a wrinkled old face to peer out and be curious as to who this stranger was, hanging around leaning against a tree and should she call the police? Or perhaps the nice FBI agent whose father and brother lived a few doors down? The latter option would actually be welcome to the man.

For all that people remained the same over the years in a way, the world didn't. The 21st century was all about advancement through technology and the little gadget he held in his hands could make him look like an average Joe, waiting for a friend with no malevolent agenda in mind and keeping occupied by perhaps playing a game of solitaire on his BlackBerry or Palm Pilot or what not. In any case, he wasn't going to be here long. If things worked out, the person he was waiting for would arrive, he'd do his part and leave. He wasn't sure where he would go though. He also wasn't sure if he cared. Prison; death row; Mexico – it was all the same to him. All that he'd ever wanted he'd already lost – there was nothing else; there was nowhere else.

But that wasn't to say there hadn't been something once. Growing up an only child with a father more interested in the bottle than playing baseball with his son, he had always desired something more – a sense of family; a sense of belonging. He'd finally had it in the shape and form of his wife Sherri and their daughter Melissa. At least for 19 years - Melissa hadn't lived to see her twentieth birthday. 

A quick glance at his watch told him that it was time – or nearly yet, it seemed the person he was waiting for was running a little late. All that he'd been doing the past week, what he'd probably been slowly gearing himself for since Sherri…, it was all going to come together now. Arrival in L.A a few days ago had been low-key. He checked himself into a motel and done a lot of walking in the city known for its lack of adequate public transport. Pasadena was more picturesque than he'd imagined and he should know - he'd spent most of his time here, walking around, one block more than others. He'd noticed the residents of the houses on this quiet street leave for work, school, yoga class and come back, some late at night, some in the afternoon, some a few days after. It was one family in particular he was interested in, and he'd made sure to watch them more than the others but at the same time making certain that they didn't see or notice him. A young man in his thirties, dark unruly hair, shifting sense of fashion, sometimes accompanied or being paid visits by a pretty little thing, close to the younger man in age but more settled in her way of dress, was constantly in and out of the house. A closer inspection had resulted in the man noting the constant presence of light emanating from the garage, especially when the man was home. Most regular of all in his schedule, however, was the elderly man living in the same house.

He knew their names but he was only interested in what they could do for him. A nice little listening device – it was amazing what was available on the internet these days - slid under the door to the side where it would be out of the way, had served its purpose. He'd struck gold tonight by listening in on the younger man's – Charles Eppes – cell phone conversation with who could only be his older brother even if it involved talking about some files along with some good-natured teasing; the older brother who was arriving in an hour – and that had been an hour and ten minutes ago.

Patience was a virtue and tonight, it would help him commit sin – if retribution could be thought a sin. His reward was the sound of a SUV coming up the street. Most of the residents along this lane had small cars - Toyotas, Hondas, Audis – only one house was visited by a government issued SUV, and this house was being visited now.

He was already in motion as the black suburban took the right turn it needed to pull into the driveway of the Craftsman. Each step brought him closer to his target and the man could feel a strange sensation flooding his veins – excitement, exhilaration, _relief. _It was now or never. He pulled the snub-nosed 38. special revolver from the pocket of his overcoat when he felt the grass under his feet as he crossed the front lawn, his destination the driver's side door of the vehicle. He wondered as he swiftly made his way over to the man, who was by now getting out of the vehicle, how long it would take for the trained agent to notice him, his presence and the threat he posed.

He was mildly surprised when he found that he was just three arm lengths away from touching the man when the agent saw his reflection in the car window as he was locking the door and turned around quickly, hand on the holster on his hip but it wasn't nearly fast enough, the reason for it coming as he looked into the tired, and surprised, eyes of the man he was about to kill and considered the fact that maybe this had been meant to happen, that he would pick a night when his target was weary from whatever it was so that his approach would go unnoticed till it was too late to prevent what was to happen.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the trigger once, twice, thrice on the small revolver he held in his extended left hand. The impact was to the centre of the dark-haired man's chest for at this close a proximity it was hard for even a first-timer to miss, and it jerked the agent back against the unyielding surface of the car. The shooter's gun wielding arm followed his victim's slide onto the ground and for a moment a two, both stared at each other. The lack of redness on the man's shirt cut through the fog in his mind and the man mentally cursed as he realized that Agent Eppes had been wearing a bulletproof vest underneath his clothes. 

Biting his lip at the complexity in what was to be a simple plan, he raised the gun a few inches until it pointed at the agent's forehead who by now was more alert and aware, the surprise of the attack dissipating as quickly as his breathing grew strained from the impact of three high-velocity projectiles into the centre of his chest.

Refraining from pulling the trigger, the man wondered if he should perhaps savour these last few seconds, see if the agent knew who he was and why he was about to die, or more importantly, see if the agent would try and convince him to not kill him, to beg for his life. 

The next few moments passed in silence, save for the deep breathing of both men. The man decided against it – his daughter, during the twenty-four hours or her captivity, probably never received a satisfactory answer as to why she had been made to suffer so. She must have begged for her life as well, but to no avail, just as this agent would find pleading pointless. If he tried, that is. At the moment, he seemed to be content with just glaring at his attacker, not enough energy to even contemplate using his own side-arm which was still in its holster.

The delay had its problems. The man was just about to start putting pressure on the trigger when to his left he heard the sound of a door opening and footsteps hurrying towards them, the name of the agent on the lips of the newcomer.

On instinct, the man swung his arm until the gun pointed at the curly haired man who had come running in a foolish attempt to perhaps help or save his brother and the trespasser watched with some satisfaction as the incentive of a pointed gun brought the mathematician to a sudden halt, hands lifting in surrender slightly in reflex. He supposed he was to thank the mathematician for allowing him to have his revenge – it was only a few months ago when he'd been in the grocery store, buying enough to sustain one person for a week when he'd glanced at the magazines at the checkout line and noticed the name "Eppes" squeezed into the corner of Vanity Fair and wouldn't you know it, it even mentioned "his brother Don, a Special Agent in the Los Angeles FBI office." The same Special Agent who was once head of the Albuquerque Field Office, now in Los Angeles, with a strong relationship with his brother, a Charles Eppes of 875 Hunter Street, Pasadena thanks to the Yellow Pages. It was fate.

The same Charles Eppes standing in front of him now was a marked contrast to the self-assured looking man gracing the back of the self-help book "The Attraction Equation", his expressive face now telegraphing fear and anguish. While the younger brother seemed bent on bringing people together, the older seemed destined to tearing them apart. The kidnappers that Agent Eppes had been unable to get to in time had not only killed his daughter, they'd also killed his wife, albeit three years later and with a willingly taken bottle of pills. Suicide it might look and be but it was murder, nonetheless. And he would join his family soon, if need be. Just after tonight.

Remembering that the mathematician had not been home alone tonight, that his girlfriend had come in with him and probably was frantically dialling 911 and the Agent's FBI buddies, the man shook himself out of his funk and tried to decide what to do. He'd only come with the intention of killing one, but two was just as doable. In fact, it was better. He'd lost his entire family, and now, so would his victims' father.

Taking a deep breath, he began to pull back the hammer on his gun when a sound surprised him:

"Don't"

There was hardly any strength in the spoken word to be considered a command by any who heard it. The agent's difficulty in breathing had made it sound far more strained then he would have liked, but the intent and desire behind it was just the same. The man's head had snapped to the right to look at the speaker and he now considered the wounded man with surprise, the man at whose head he'd pointed a gun and he hadn't whispered one word, but was speaking now; a man who'd stared down the barrel of a gun with defiance but when it had been turned away to point at someone else, his brother to be exact, was now looking at him with fear, but not for himself.

The man turned back to look at the younger brother who was now shifting his weight from heel to heel – a classic sign of impatience, giving the impression that he just wanted to get past the man to his older brother and the gun was just a pesky nuisance. 

"Please"

The gun wavered in his hands. This was not part of the plan. It wasn't supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be simple: shoot, kill and leave, letting others clean up the mess just like he'd been left to deal with his wife after their daughter's murder, and he'd failed her too and he'd had almost three years to live with the knowledge, each day melting into the other and life becoming unbearably worse, not better, with passing time.

He turned back to look at the man he'd set out to kill and in his eyes, he recognized a bit of himself – someone who'd lost, or was about to lose, everything they held dear, knowing that there was nothing they could do to stop it, but were willing to give whatever was necessary to prevent it.

Sirens were filling the air – Pasadena PD were rushing to the rescue, but the man still had more than enough time to pull the trigger enough times to kill both brothers. 

But he no longer held the desire to. This wasn't him. Or at least, this wasn't the man his wife had fallen in love with and his daughter had looked up to. He was no better than those who set him on this path of destruction and murder in the first place.

With as much speed as he'd earlier presented when walking towards his target, he dropped the gun and made his way back across the lawn to the sidewalk. If his actions surprised the two men, he didn't see it. He could sense the younger man behind him rush towards his brother and before getting too far away, he turned around for a last glimpse, to see what made him a better man than those who'd killed his family – the younger man was crouched by his brother's side and was in the process of pulling the bulletproof vest hidden beneath the now damaged shirt off before wrapping his arms around his brother's neck in a gesture that seemed exclusive to families at desperate times.

He turned away and tried to blend into the darkness as he walked away. Maybe it was just him who didn't deserve to be happy but he'd shown mercy – maybe it would be enough for his family to welcome him again with open arms when they finally sae each other again in a world that seemed far in coming.

**Khatum (The End) **

I think I may have channelled the Winchester brothers for this. Ah well. And Happy St. Patrick's Day! 


End file.
